Waltz
by Minuit Lugubre
Summary: He requests the pleasure of a dance, and I graciously accept, albeit with surprise at the invitation, all without the exchange of words. SMacked oneshot.


**Disclaimer: CSI: NY is property of CBS and does not belong to me. I am not making money off of its characters, just borrowing them to accomplish my evil plans.  
****Cheers.****

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Waltz

I pick up the stack of papers and straighten them against my desk, grateful to know that in thirty minutes' time, I would be in the safety and familiarity of my own home, fast asleep wrapped in my warm comforter.

_The end of another long day… A woman impaled with a replica lightsaber, a kidnap victim bound and gagged with a roll of Belgian lace, a man clubbed to death with a waffle iron and a spatula… I love my job._

I brush a few loose curls out of my eyes and sit back in my chair to give my full, undivided attention to the cup of lukewarm coffee sitting untouched on my desk. I gaze down at the hypnotic swirling liquid, contemplating the details of the week's bizarre investigations.

_A forty-five year old man kidnapped by his unstable estranged wife… A woman beating her husband of thirty years to death because she felt trapped in the life of a suburban housewife… That poor girl, never saw it coming… A milliner, wasn't she, the one who abducted him but couldn't bear to kill him…? Killed at that Star Trek (or was it Star _Wars_?) convention after winning an autograph from–_

My overlapping thoughts were interrupted when I hear a melodious waltz nearby, the foreign timbre of a decadent Regency-era string serenade surprising me, for who would be listening to such a CD, at such an hour? I feel the vivacious melody, enthralling me, enveloping me in its vibrant warmth and I cannot help but glance up, curious to learn who this clandestine classical fan could be.

_Who would still be here at this hour? Unless…_

Through the glass walls, I saw _him_ sitting at his desk, still in his suit, a little worse for wear – for him, at least, absentmindedly bobbing his head to the three-step beat. He has a CD case in his hands and such a faraway look in his eyes that makes me feel voyeuristic, as if I'm witnessing something truly intimate… His gaze suddenly focuses on me and he looks at me with those weary eyes of his that look like they have seen too much – his Beirut comrade he tried in vain to save, who ended up dying in his arms, the Towers falling hours after kissing his wife goodbye after dropping her off for work... I turn away quickly, my cheeks burning. I am stunned – could I have imagined that momentary whisper of shyness in those same eyes?

Cautiously, I get up from my desk and walk toward him, into his office…

I glance at him with a raised eyebrow and he shoots a teasing look at me, one that says quite plainly, _Yes, I enjoy classical, what of it?_ As if daring me to mock him... My smile is my only response.

We stand there wordlessly – two statues, encased in a cold glass display, detached from the rest, ensnared in a fantastical world of our own creation… The would-be silence is only broken by the music, the gap between us only filled by that timeless magnum opus. The stillness does not trouble me, and the speechlessness is not at all awkward – _au contraire_... There is an inexpressible comfort in knowing that we, my partner and I, are able to communicate to each other our fears, our weaknesses, our desires… without uttering a word.

He suddenly shatters the uncanny stillness to rise up from his chair, a smooth, sweeping motion, and strides up to me, offering me an arm, an act that astonishes me with its spontaneity.

He requests the pleasure of a dance, and I graciously accept, albeit with surprise at the invitation, all without the exchange of words.

He bows and I give an awkward stiff nod (_I_ do not curtsy). He places his hand, rough yet warm, tenderly on my waist, a gesture requiring much trust from both of us, for he knows that I'd easily snap the neck of any other man who'd dare try. I place mine on his shoulder and give him a teasing glare, daring him to lead.

And he does.

We start slowly, nervously, our hearts leaping out of our chests, shuffling awkwardly in the confined space. Slowly our feet, as well as our hearts, find a common rhythm. Our bodies are ever so close, yet ever so far apart… His steps are even-paced, well-learned, and calculated, so even I, an orphan who had spent a third of her life beating up boys and would never be caught dead learning to waltz, could keep up. Okay, we all know that that's a lie.

I flash him a winning smile and begin to quicken the pace. He beams, amused as I start to lead. I rein him in the slightest bit closer, and in time, we are surrounded by effervescent streamers of amber light, caught in an ever-turning Technicolor kaleidoscope. As we spin faster and faster, the melody tries in vain to catch up…

The room is a symphony of hue, its harmonious tones rivaled only by those of the playful Viennese waltz…

Suddenly, I am astonished to find that we are now paying ridiculous homage to Fred and Ginger in a spacious grand ballroom, and at this point I know I must be dreaming. The glass panes disappear, replaced by garish gold-colored walls that reflect not the fluorescent lighting, but several ludicrous chandeliers that would have made the Phantom of the Opera envious... My blouse has transformed into an olive-green evening gown, an impractical Grecian-style number I'd never in my right mind own, its silk hanging in drapes around my frame. My partner in the field, as well as on the dance floor, is now wearing a well-cut tuxedo, complete with tails, a bow-tie, and a boutonnière – a white rose – tucked into the buttonhole on his lapel. I roll my eyes at his bow-tie, untie it, and impetuously cast it to the floor. He smiles as I do so, his ocean-blue eyes twinkling with laughter.

We pick up where we left off, only this time, with a new impassioned fervor…

Not once did my eyes ever leave his.

It seems an eternity – this feeling of bliss, of rapture, of _euphoria_ – and yet never long enough…

The fates are cruel to grant me my first glimpse of heaven, knowing that inevitably, my dream will end, and I will awaken brokenhearted, after having seen what isn't, but what could have been. I know this will never last, so I choose instead to savor every touch, cherish every moment…

I feel a sudden tension in the air, and I know that the spell was broken, our reverie ended.

As the music fades, I slowly pull away, for I know I cannot bear it if he were to break off first from our perfect embrace. He looks at me with a shocked expression, though he tries to hide it, and I know I have hurt him. His fingers then close over mine and he gently plants a kiss onto my hand. I reach over, my face now vaguely the color of Pepto-Bismol, pull him closer, and give him a peck on the cheek.

We both draw back, taken aback by our own boldness.

We gaze at each other with a mutual understanding and smile – this was enough, for now, at least.

As a gesture of farewell, he takes his boutonnière off of the lapel of his tux, and tucks it behind my ear. He then winks at me as if to say, _You take care, now_. And with this, he parts, leaving me at one end of the spectacular dance hall with my eyes still fixed on his retreating back, forcing myself not to run after him.

I give in to temptation, but as soon as I take the first step, I become a hairsbreadth away from cracking my head open on the glass wall of his office and ending up on our autopsy table at the mercy of our coroner.

I was wearing my favorite blouse – the one that he had once told me brought out my eyes. I looked around at his empty office. He must have left hours ago.

I shake my head and decide that the time is appropriate to call it a day – the sleep deprivation must be interfering with my sanity (ironically, it is usually me telling _him_ this) – perhaps I can make sense of tonight's events after a good four hours of sleep.

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When I return home, I drop my keys in a ceramic bowl on a small table pushed against the wall.

I enter my bathroom and splash my face with cold water from the faucet. I wipe my dripping face with a towel, glance up at my haggard reflection and notice something on my left ear.

Nestled in a tangle of unruly curls was an immaculate white rose, radiant in the dim light.

**Fin.**

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A/N: This marks the first time in years I'm publishing a fan-fiction. I was about 10 years old when someone first tried to pass off my fic as his/her own, and after that I lost the heart to continue writing. This will be my first CSI: NY fan-fiction but hopefully not my last.  
**Please review; I'm a bit rusty.  
**I've never liked using names, so I hope you don't mind my failure to refer to the characters by name. This story came to me in a dream, and I'm still trying to make sense of it myself. Please interpret it as you will; I hope I'm not confusing anyone.

Cheers.


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